


Safe Distance

by Pinkys143



Category: Homeland
Genre: Mother-Daughter Relationship, POV Multiple, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-10-22 07:29:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10692513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkys143/pseuds/Pinkys143
Summary: After 6.12, Carrie spent years seeking revenge for Peter Quinn's death, never getting the satisfaction she craved.  Now she is working hard to balance a job she loves with being a good mom to Franny.  Still unable to shake her feelings for Quinn, Carrie is living a lonely existence.  A new threat is emerging and she'll do anything to protect Franny, but she's not the only one.  Who is keeping an eye on them?  Who has their back?  An explosive secret from Franny's childhood might be the key to what saves them both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So grateful to the HYH blog and Homelandstuff LiveJournal ladies for the support and encouragement. Many thanks to the fantastic editors who gave freely of their time and energy, inchbyinch68, ascloseasthis, and leblanc1! xoxo

Sitting at the dark oak kitchen table, the morning light from a cloudy day filtering through the half-closed blinds, Franny is finishing her bowl of cereal and flipping through pictures of her and her mom on her phone. Having swiped all the way back through the pictures to when she got her phone a couple of years ago, Franny hadn’t found one picture of her mom with a smile on her face.

With the last bite of cereal, Franny finishes the sugary milk left in the bottom of the bowl and gets up to put her dishes in the sink. She hears a door close, and then the creak of the stairs as Carrie makes her way down to the kitchen. “Morning, Mom,” Franny says, with some added enthusiasm in her voice. Carrie looks at her with a strained smile, and a hurried “morning, sweetheart” back to her, never breaking stride as she walks to the counter. 

Franny’s eyes follow Carrie as she moves about the kitchen, starting the coffee maker, flicking on the TV, putting away the clean dishes, setting her off-white coffee mug on the counter, the only one she uses. Franny knows she’s not sleeping again. She can hear Carrie throughout the night, getting up, pacing, working in her office, sometimes into the early morning. Her mom isn’t one to watch much, if any, TV, but lately she’s been watching the news obsessively. Franny can see the physical toll on Carrie’s face; the darkening circles under her eyes and the seemingly permanent crease in between her eyebrows are dead giveaways.

A firm knock at the door is Franny’s signal to put on her coat, grab her bag and say goodbye to her mom. Carrie sets her coffee down and walks over to Franny, wrapping her arms around her, squeezing just a little too tight. “Have a good day at school, I’ll be home for dinner tonight. Love you, beautiful girl.” Franny loves and hates these goodbyes. She loves the physical connection with her mom, but they always feel like they could be the last one, it can be emotionally exhausting at times. Squeezing her mom with a soft pat on the back, Franny says back, “Love you too, Mom, see you tonight.” 

Franny’s walk to school was a freedom that she cherished. It was a small taste of independence. The fresh air and time to listen to her own music, not that terrible jazz stuff her mom was always listening to, was something she looked forward to on school days. The music she liked was just distracting enough for her to pretend she wasn’t being followed and under the watchful eye of a bodyguard. Today’s guard was Hank, and he was her favorite. Hank was a tall former Marine with salt-and-pepper hair and a posture that would be envied by models everywhere. He wasn’t a man of many words, but Franny could tell he tried very hard to let her be like the other kids, often giving her up to a full block’s distance between them. Franny’s bodyguards didn’t have a set rotation - but on Mondays when Hank was with her, she was able to stop at Starbucks on her way to school. It had become a silly routine between them - Franny would whip around about a block from Starbucks with a big smile on her face and her hands folded as if in prayer. Hank would roll his eyes, give her a “you should know better than to ask and I shouldn’t let you” smile and off Franny would go. Today’s pit stop into Starbucks was no different. Hank was standing vigil just outside of the store, pretending not to watch her through the front glass windows. Sarah, the friendly, blonde barista was working the register, “Hey, Franny! What’ll it be today? Hot chocolate, extra whip?” Franny loved that people recognized her here. “Yes, please.” 

She and her mom had to move around a lot, due to the nature of her mom’s job. Having friends and people that recognize you can feel like a luxury at times. As Franny walked the few steps to the pick-up counter, she noticed the young guy with the hipster glasses kept looking at her while making her hot chocolate. He was definitely new here, and his blatant staring was making her uncomfortable. As he snaps on the lid to Franny’s drink, he looks up at her and softly says, “Here you go, just make sure you’re alone when you read this letter.” The look on her face must have been one of horror and confusion, because he quickly added, “it’s not from me, don’t worry.” Then he turned and walked off in a little bit of a huff. Perplexed, Franny picked up her drink and, sure enough, a small white envelope was sitting on the counter where it had been hiding under her cup. She discreetly slid the envelope into the front of her messenger bag that was slung across her body and walked back out to the sidewalk where Hank was patiently waiting.

Sipping her drink and listening to music, Franny was lost in thought the rest of way to school. She didn’t even realize that she had walked into school without waving goodbye to Hank until she was standing right in front of her class. Without going inside, Franny crosses the hall, narrowly avoiding a mob of rowdy boys, and heads into the restroom. Making her way to the stall at the end of the row and confident she is completely alone, Franny slowly pulls the letter out of its envelope. She immediately realizes who it’s from. Her eyes begin to well, hardly able to believe it. He has contacted her again after all those years.


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting at her desk, her back to the windows, Carrie stares down at today’s briefing packet. When she was younger, having a big oak desk in a large corner office like this had been her dream. Now, sitting in one, for the third time in her career, feels like a burden, a cruel joke. Truth is, she hadn’t wanted to come back to intelligence work all those years ago. Carrie had her fair share of problems with the agency - but after the rise of the deep state and their well-orchestrated attempt to shape and influence American politics, almost killing a President in the process - coupled with her realization that they might have been right in their intentions, really threw Carrie for a loop. She had learned long ago that the end didn’t always justify the means, especially not where the government was involved.

Figuring out a way to take down the people responsible for Quinn’s death had become her obsession, and was the motivating factor for getting back in the game. It pushed her to the brink, teetering between the person she wanted to be and the person she was becoming. Ultimately, it was Quinn’s voice in her ear that she couldn’t quiet. With every act of revenge Carrie would wait for the release of the internal pain that was consuming her. It never came - it only created more emptiness inside of her to take on the next mission. She had been living a shell of a life. Coming to work and letting her instincts take over was frequently an escape from the reality of her existence. Carrie couldn’t help herself when she’d catch a trail, feel that initial pull, her nerves tingling with excitement. She loved the rush, the moment where her thoughts became colors, frenetic in their energy. No longer having to deny that side of herself was of some comfort, but it came with consequences.

Carrie was trying to do her best for Franny, but she secretly felt like her best was another’s mom’s worst. She had to make a conscious effort to take interest in Franny’s schoolwork. Developing a relationship with Franny was always a work in progress. Oftentimes it was Maggie who would push her to take Franny out shopping or to a movie and dinner. Lately, they had been connecting over discussing what they were currently reading, and their favorite books. Franny’s English Lit class was studying the classics and Carrie was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Carrie was always trying to sidestep any potential reminders of Quinn and she wouldn’t be able to avoid it if Franny’s teacher assigned Great Expectations, and she wanted to discuss it.

The phone on her desk starts ringing, the shrillness of it breaks her out of her trance. Shaking her head in an effort to focus, she picks up the phone with a simple, “Carrie Mathison.” Her admin, Greta, is on the phone, reminding her to eat a little something, because Carrie has a full afternoon of meetings with the British Ambassador and his staff. Grateful for the reminder, Carrie thanks her. Greta had been with her through her last three postings and had become a lifeline for Carrie, always making sure Carrie had eaten, becoming a de facto babysitter for Franny whenever Carrie had to travel for work. 

She had also been witness to the change in Carrie’s demeanor little over a year before. Carrie had never shared with her what happened, but was extremely grateful when Greta stepped in and watched Franny on short notice after Carrie called her and told her that she needed to disappear for a few days. Greta had doctored Carrie’s calendar at work as well, making her sudden disappearance look like a surveillance mission in France, one that Carrie had actually done off-book a couple of weeks before. 

Getting up from her desk, Carrie pulls out her burner phone from a hidden pocket in the seam of her black leather purse, and sends a quick text to check-in with her security detail. Carrie was taking every precaution, she knew what these people were capable of. She’d seen it first-hand. What if she hadn’t been warned a little over a year ago? She shuddered at the thought.


	3. Chapter 3

As Franny walks out of school, she pops her earbuds in and looks for Hank. She spots him sitting on a bench just across the street, peering over his dark sunglasses at the school entrance. Upon making eye contact with Franny, he gives her a slight nod. With that, Franny sets off toward home, Hank following about a half-block behind her. 

Feeling nostalgic, Franny surprises herself by choosing an instrumental jazz station from her music app. As the music begins, Franny thinks about the coffee shop, the letter, and her mom. 

Some of her earliest childhood memories involve jazz music, her mom listening to it while cooking or when working in her office late at night. Carrie has always been super protective of her. Franny has only been on one school field trip, the zoo back in first grade — and her mother had joined as chaperone. In retrospect, Franny is pretty sure that her mom’s ear piece hadn’t been for an ear infection, as she’d claimed. She knows her mom’s job can be dangerous at times, but Franny has always felt that part of the extra security had to do with that time in foster care. They’ve never really talked about it; Franny can see the pain in her mom’s eyes at the mere mention of it. 

From what she can remember, Franny loved it. The house always smelled like sugar cookies, and she had a big bed with a white headboard in her own room with soft yellow-painted walls. Ms. Roth, her foster mom, had loved to read stories to her, and had made sure that Franny had a stack of her own books to read too. There were plenty of kids to play with throughout the day at the house, mostly older kids, and none of them ever made fun of her for carrying her favorite stuffed bunny, Hop, with her everywhere. 

Wiping a tear off her cheek, Franny realizes she is almost a block from home. She picks up the pace — she can hardly wait to get to the privacy of her room and reread the letter again.

After Hank finishes his security checks, he resets the alarm system and says goodbye to Franny. “All clear, Kiddo. See you next week sometime.” 

Franny tries to hide her impatience with a big smile. “See ya, Hank,” she calls as she takes off up the stairs.

Rushing into her room, she throws her coat on the floor and sits down on her bed, pulling the white envelope out of her messenger bag. Her hands are shaking as she carefully slides the letter out of the envelope and unfolds the paper.

In small printed letters at the top of the page is a single sentence in quotes:   
“beLieve there Is a great power silently woRking all things for good, Behave Yourself And neveR mInd the rest.” 

Franny reaches over to her nightstand and pulls out a notepad from the top drawer. Writing down the capital letters from the note - LIRBYAR, she immediately recognizes the word, LIBRARY. Franny smiles. The clue is simple, most likely to make sure she didn’t miss it. The quote however, is one she knows by heart. It’s from one of her favorite childhood authors, Beatrix Potter.

Franny stands up and walks over to her desk with the letter pressed against her chest, butterflies in her stomach. She knows she should tear up or burn the note, Spy 101. But she can’t bring herself to part with it. She pulls all of her Beatrix Potter books off of her shelf and onto her desk. Franny opens The Tales of Peter Rabbit and slides the note into it.

“Hey Beautiful Girl, how was school?” asks Carrie, as she walks into Franny’s room.

Clearly startled, Franny replies “nothing” a little too fast. Seeing her mom’s brow furrow in suspicion, thinking quick on her feet, she adds “I was listening to jazz on my way home from school today, and it made me think of our house in New York, my old room.”

Carrie’s face softens as she strains a small smile at Franny. “It was a great room,” Carrie says with a sigh and a nod of her head. Franny sees her mom’s eyes look down at the book she is holding, the one she just slid the letter into, the letter she cannot let her mother see. Carrie opens her arms up and walks toward her, pulling Franny into a hug, a little too tight as always. “It’s a shame we never found Hop,” Carrie says. Franny closes her eyes and squeezes her mom back, thankful she can’t see the look on her face. Franny wouldn’t be able to conceal the truth if her mom could see her. She didn’t lose Hop: she knows exactly where he is.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Quinn is slumped back in the driver's seat, blood bubbling from his mouth, running down his neck.  Carrie, too scared to check his pulse, looks away, but there he is again, now standing in front of her, back on the street outside of Maggie’s house, blood running from his mouth.  “You did this to me,” as he points his finger at his paralyzed arm, repeating the words, over and over again.  Carrie breaks out in a run the opposite direction, now she’s running down the tunnels under the Islamabad station.  Quinn is waiting for her as she rounds the corner, this time there is no blood running down his face, no gunshot wounds.  He smiles at her, relieved, she smiles back.  She starts walking towards him and just as they are about to embrace, they hear a gunshot that stops her in her tracks.  “Watch your back, Carrie.”  Quinn says.  She turns to see where the shot came from, when she looks back at Quinn, he’s gone.   _

Waking up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, Carrie sits up in bed and looks frantically around her room, hand clutching her chest.  It’s always the same dream.  

On edge, Carrie heads downstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water.  Whenever her anxiety is high, the dreams come more frequently.  She’s been having them almost every night lately, sometimes twice a night.  Taking a shaky breath and a big gulp of her water, Carrie heads upstairs to her office.

Running her hand underneath the lip of the top stair, Carrie detaches the velcro pouch and pulls out a key.  Unlocking the door to her office, she flips on the light as she enters.    Large framed jazz posters and old art projects of Franny’s lined the walls.  Closing the door behind her, Carrie walks over to the posters, and one by one, turns them over, revealing maps, photos, post-it notes, newspaper clippings, and an intricate set of colored strings, creating a real-time train of thought.

Picking up a blue marker from her desk, Carrie writes “MI6—> IRGC” on a yellow post-it.  Turning and walking over to the poster closest to the door, Carrie takes a moment as she stares at the picture of Brody, taped to the top of the board.  Tracing the thread down to her picture in the bottom corner, she sticks the new post-it, next to it.

Her meeting earlier in the day with the British ambassador and his deputy head of special ops division of MI6, Ethan Shepard, had been pretty routine.  They were reviewing the upcoming “Black Bag” joint intelligence gathering operation on the new Iranian regime that had just overthrown the current government.  The British ambassador had been invited to a “Black Tie Evening” at the Saudi Arabian embassy.  A great opportunity with perfect cover for agents to gain much needed access to the main offices of the embassy and proximity to the new Iranian ambassador and his entourage.

Standing in her office at home, Carrie reflects back on the end of the meeting, when Ethan had asked her for a minute alone.  

_ Thanking the ambassador for his time, and dismissing her team, Carrie shut the door to the secure room.  Turning to face Ethan, she was immediately defensive, “If this is about the fuck-up in France, don’t worry about it.  I’ve already sent a new guy there to take over the job at the bank.” _

_ “It’s not about that, Carrie.  Why don’t we sit back down for a minute?”  Motioning to the chairs, his voice is low and serious. _

_ Taking a seat across from Ethan, Carrie studied his face. He looked stressed and exhausted, but who wasn’t?  “Ok.  What’s up?” _

_ “We’ve had quite a few hack attempts recently, nothing new there.  The majority of them targeting our Special Ops division, once again, not entirely unusual.” _

_ Carrie, getting impatient, started tapping her fingers on the table. _

_ Leaning forward, to make sure Carrie is listening and taking him seriously, Ethan tells her, “Look, I sent one of my guys to IT to pick up the report, make sure we had a read on who was trying to break in.  The report had the name of one file under attack,  U479-34412.” _

_ Carrie must have a blank stare on her face, because Ethan slams his hand on the table.  “Goddammit, Carrie.  That file is you.  It’s our background check on you, your previous whereabouts, details of your interactions with our service including a list of your prominent missions and their outcomes.  Do you get it now?” _

_ Carrie tensed internally, forcing her words to sound calmer than she felt.  “Where were these attacks emanating from?” _

_ “They were masking their location.  But from what our IT could tell, it was a coordinated effort by at least 10 hackers, working together.  We were able to get into the backend of one of the computers for a few seconds before they disconnected.  Based on the information they were able to download, our team said the group was Iranian.”  _

_ Leaning closer to Carrie, Ethan put his hand on hers.  She quickly pulled it away and stood up, signaling it was time for Ethan to leave. _

_ Looking defeated, Ethan got up, took a step towards the door and then turned around to face Carrie.  “Look, we’ve got two weeks until the op.  The new regime in place at the IRGC is probably feeling the heat and is looking to do opposition research to rebuild their files.  We know Mohammed Ali Jafari ordered the files to be destroyed and servers wiped as an act of defiance before being executed.  You know that means they are trying to get back up and running quickly.” _

_Shaking her head in agreement, impatient for him to leave, Carrie snapped at him.  “Yeah, I’m sure it’s something like that.”   Softening her tone as Ethan left the office, Carrie called out “And thanks for the heads up.”_ _Fuck._

Pondering the implications of the Iranians looking into her, standing alone, standing in her office in the middle of the night, Franny's room nearby, the reality of the danger they are in is too real and all too familiar. Carrie pulls a red string out of her desk drawer.  She places a pin in the new post it note - and one in a note from a year ago.  The one she posted when she got a coded message from Roger at the NSA telling her that someone with extensive connections had a call intercepted.  The two people on the line were discussing Carrie and her current life, but with heavy emphasis on the time period between the bombing of the CIA on 12/12 and her posting as CIA chief in Kabul.  He couldn’t say much more, but he knew he owed her after the debacle with Sekou Bah, back in New York.  When she pressed him for more information.  He only replied with one word,  _ Sepah _ .  The term used by Iranians when referring to the IRGC without showing loyalty to them.

A year ago she hadn’t yet been working on the British joint-op, so it must be personal.  Payback from her intelligence housecleaning under Keane?  One of Dar’s cronies, sitting in jail, orchestrating revenge on her for taking them down?  Something worse?  Whatever it is, the threat is increasing, that much she knows.  Time to be more vigilant, add more security to her private detail.  With determined resolve, Carrie threads the red string, connecting the two pins.  


	5. Chapter 5

After a long day at school and a quiet, unusually quiet, dinner with her mom, Franny heads upstairs under the guise of doing homework, when in truth, she just wants to be alone with her thoughts.  The sunlight that was streaming through her west-facing windows when she first got home from school today is now replaced with long shadows, leaving her bedroom in darkness.  

Turning on the lamp next to her bed, Franny opens her closet, looking for something special to wear to school tomorrow.  Twice a month she goes to the local library after school, swapping out books, and doing homework.  Tomorrow would not be a typical visit.  Picking out a dark pair of skinny jeans, she opts for a soft blue dolman sleeve top that pairs well with her cropped navy blue leather jacket.  “Spy-wear best,” she says with a smile to herself.  It’s not quite the all black, bad-ass look, her mom wears when in mission mode, but it’s dark and looks good with Franny’s red hair.  She doubts she’ll be able to sleep tonight, but sets her alarm an extra 15 minutes early. 

After brushing her teeth Franny crawls into bed, and lies back against the headboard with her eyes closed. She lets her mind drift back to that  sunny day, when it felt  like winter although the calendar had just turned to spring.  

_ Her foster mom, Ms. Roth, bundled up the kids and took them to a nearby park.  Franny had been playing tag with the older kids when she spotted a big oak tree. Thinking she could outsmart them if she hid behind it, she went running towards it when she tripped and fell.  Putting out her hands to break her fall, she dropped Hop, her favorite stuffed animal that she used to bring everywhere.  He was soft, white, had big floppy ears and was now covered in dirt.  Stunned by the fall, Franny sat on the ground for a second, looking at the redness on her palms, blinking away the tears that had filled her eyes. _

_ A tall man in a black jacket and hat bent over, picked up Hop, and brushed  the dirt off of him.  “Are you okay?  Need some help getting up?” said the tall man.  Normally, Franny was taught to never talk to strangers, but he wasn’t a stranger.  “Peter!” Franny jumped up, ready to run and hug the man.  But he had shook his head, stopping Franny in her tracks.  Speaking quietly and slowly, he said “I-I-I’m going to leave for a little while.  I just w-w-w-wanted to make sure you were ok.” _

_ “Mommy said you went to heaven with Grandpa Frank.” _

_ “It’s better that she thinks that.  It’s not s-s-s-safe for me to be around you guys right n-n-now,” Peter said as reached out and handed Hop back to her. _

_ Franny took Hop, kissed him on the top of his furry white head, and gave him back to Peter.  “Take Hop with you. He’ll keep you safe.”   _

_ Peter brought Hop back to his chest, and gave Franny a  crooked smile that contrasted with the  tears in his eyes.  It was then that Franny heard her name being called by Ms. Roth.  Peter took a couple of steps back, limping to move behind the tree, as he said to her “This will be our secret, ok, Franny? Yours, m-m-mine and Hop’s.” _

_ “When will I get to see you again, Peter?  Mommy and I miss you.”   _

_ “Hop and I will come visit you, but only if y-y-you keep secret.  Someday soon, when it’s safe, okay?”  Looking around, Peter took another step away from her.  “Time for you to go p-p-play.” _

_ “Ok, bye Peter, bye Hop!”  Franny said with a big smile on her face.  They waved at each other and she went running back towards the older kids, jumping right back into their game of tag. _

Opening her eyes, sitting up and rearranging her pillows, Franny shuts off her lamp and lays back down.  

Throughout her childhood, Franny would often fantasize about the father she never knew.  Her mom painted a better picture of her real dad than Aunt Maggie.  Franny could tell Aunt Maggie wasn’t a big fan of her dad.  She would purse her lips together and cross her arms over her chest the handful of times he was mentioned.

Last summer Franny had gone to stay with Aunt Maggie and the girls for a few weeks.  One hot summer afternoon, she was sitting with Aunt Maggie, watching her cousins play frisbee on the beach.   _ “What did you think of Peter Quinn?  Mom’s friend?”  Franny asked Maggie out of the blue.   _

_ Aunt Maggie, sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, gave Franny a sideways glance, “He was sweet.  I only met him once, at your Grandpa’s funeral.  He was tall, handsome,” she paused, and then smiled, “Quiet.  Spent a lot of time with you that day.” _

_ Remembering the story her mom told her of the first time she met Quinn, Franny smiled, looking down, shyly.  “I sometimes pretend he was my dad,”  Franny confided, hardly able to believe she had just said that out loud. _

_ With a pained look on her face, Aunt Maggie leaned over and wrapped an arm around Franny.  “Your mom said you guys were like two peas in a pod.”   _

Rolling over to her side, Franny  wonders if her memories about that day at the park with Peter and Hop are real or a just a dream.  She was so little back then, naive.  Growing up, friends at school went to Daddy/Daughter dances and have memories of being twirled and adored.  Franny has secrets of a father she never knew and fantasies of a father she wishes she had.  Her mom works hard to make sure she feels just as loved as if she had two parents, Franny knows that.  But it doesn’t fill the emptiness, at least not completely.  It’s selfish, she knows.  Franny starts to drift off to sleep, picturing a tall man with dark hair and a crooked smile, his fatherly blue eyes lighting up when he sees her.  It has to be him, who else would know about her love for Peter Rabbit, planning a secret meeting to get her alone?


	6. Chapter 6

_ 10 Years Ago _

Quinn didn’t remember much about the day he died.  He recalled having pain everywhere, feeling like his lungs were on fire and hearing the intermittent sounds of sirens.  He had vague memories of waking up, hooked up to machines and IV’s in a dingy gray room without windows, but he had no memories of being brought to an abandoned warehouse where a medical team quickly assembled to save his life.  After undergoing an intense surgery and several blood transfusions, he was so drugged up that he couldn’t even muster the energy to lift his arms, let alone speak.  

After that touch-and-go first week, his progress was slow. He had lost all track of time while he was there too, but the older couple who was taking care of him, nursing him back to health, were able to fill in the gaps.  Quinn knew them as Mr. & Mrs. P - he had met them on several occasions, once as a patient when a Colombian drug cartel had put a price on his head and he barely made it out of South America, and on several other times when he was dropping off assets or fellow agents to be treated.  Mrs P was a retired surgical nurse and Mr. P (or Henry as Mrs. P called him) was a former Marine with black ops training and had known Dar for ages.  Having worked with him for as long has he did, Quinn knew him to be a man of his word, detailed and diligent.  Dar told him that Mr. P left the agency after a covert mission in Somalia went bad and innocent civilians were killed.  Mr. P had been working as an independent contractor ever since.  Most of the operations he took these days were to help and protect wounded officers with help from his wife when needed.  Quinn wasn’t sure what had led him to be in their care, but he knew enough to trust them.

Two weeks later, Quinn was unable to use his arms.  His left arm was still paralyzed from his stroke in Berlin with the little range of motion he had in it, gone.  Temporarily, according to Mrs. P.  But his good arm, his right arm, was still healing from the damage to blood vessels and torn muscle which limited his range of motion.  Mr. P was getting him up and out of bed every day, helping him take short walks throughout the warehouse.  Every day Mr. P pressed harder, expecting Quinn to push back, but he never did.  If anyone understood the mental toll that Quinn’s job had taken on him, it was Mr. P and Quinn knew it.  Quinn respected him too much to give him a hard time.

Quinn hadn’t said much other than to ask what had happened and if Carrie and the President elect were ok, until one morning when Mrs. P had walked in with a wooden tray that had Quinn’s breakfast on it.  Mrs. P was short and fit from the morning runs she took religiously every day with Mr. P.  She was in her mid-fifties and easily looked ten years younger.  She had dark brown eyes, bright pink cheeks and always looked put together.  Her light brown hair was pulled back in a low, sleek ponytail.  She was a natural caretaker and a little too cheerful, especially for pre-coffee Quinn.

“Good morning, Peter!”  Mrs. P said in a bright singsong voice.

Sick of being spoon fed his meals, Quinn had snapped at her, “I’m not hungry, go away.”

Without breaking her stride Mrs. P continued to walk towards Quinn and in a few short steps she was standing next to his bed.  “You need to keep your strength up.  Time to eat.”  She gently placed the tray over Quinn’s legs and then sat on the edge of his bed.  He quietly watched her unwrap a straw and place it in his orange juice, then she opened up a napkin and placed it on his lap.

“What for?” Quinn said.

The question caught her off-guard.  “What do you mean what for?  Why should you eat?  Isn’t it obvious?” Mrs. P asked Quinn with a quizzical look on her face.

With a defeated look, Quinn asked, “W-w-why do I need strength?  What am I s-s-s-supposed to do now?” He knew why he was being hidden, there was no telling if the assassination attempt on Keane was going to be pinned on him - but he wasn’t sure what the long term plan for him was.  How long would he have to be out-of-sight?  Where could he go?  He didn’t want to go back to the VA hospital and couldn’t live with Carrie taking care of him anymore.

Mrs. P placed a hand on Quinn’s thigh and with a soft tone said, “Well, you need your strength so you can get better and get out of this warehouse.  That’s for starters.  As for what you are going to do next, I think that is up to you.  Henry has something to show you that I think will help you figure out what’s next.”  She patted Quinn’s leg, “Now, time to eat.”

Quinn wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but he was too tired and in too much pain to say much.  Plus, he had no plans on going anywhere, anytime soon.

A short while later, Mr. P walked into Quinn’s room, carrying a thick, black, heavy duty laptop.  Quinn recognized it as military issue immediately. Tall, with broad, muscular shoulders, Mr. P wore his dark, graying hair, buzzed short in a typical military crew cut.  He was wearing dark khaki colored cargo pants and a fitted black t-shirt, tucked into his pants.  “Alright Quinn, time to start talking about your situation.  Dar’s team found your go-bag where you hid it near the Flag House.  They brought it here along with this laptop and intel on the status of the investigation into the threat against President Keane.”  Mr. P pressed play on the video and as he did, Dar Adal’s face filled the screen.

Dar’s olive colored skin looked pale and the bags under his eyes were darker than usual.  With a solemn look, Dar began speaking, “Peter, time is short.  As you have been told, you were being set-up by McClendon and Senator Coto.  I called Carrie the day of the assassination attempt  to warn her.  I didn’t know who could be trusted, so I sent a team into retrieve you.  When they found the bullet-riddled SUV, Secret Service had assumed you were dead and left you behind when they evacuated the president elect to safety.  I didn’t think it was in your best interest for anyone to know you survived the attack, so I had your death faked.  Once you receive the all clear from my team, you are safe to leave the warehouse. The cover I gave you at the lake house is still intact.  I would recommend that you use your go bag and get out of the country to lay low.  At least for awhile.   I am sorry, Peter.  I never intended for things to go this far.”  Dar paused, pursed his lips.  He seemed to be deciding what else to say.  The with a deep breath, Dar began to speak again, “Be well, Peter.”  

The screen went to black, Mr. P went to work, deleting the video.  Quinn stilled, his chest tightening as he was thinking about what Dar had just said.

His voice was barely a whisper, “Does Carrie know I’m alive?”  Even as the words are leaving his mouth, Quinn knew the answer.

Closing the laptop and standing up, Mr. P answered matter of factly, “No, only Dar, his team, Mrs. P and I.”

A small sigh of relief escaped Quinn’s lips.  He had wanted to die so many times.  He was always drawn to darkness, believing it was all he deserved.  “Dying” to protect Carrie and Keane had just changed everything for him.  He hadn’t put his life on the line because he was expected to - or because he felt he had to out of guilt.  He had sacrificed himself for Carrie and the president elect  because it was the right thing to do, because that’s who he was at his core: a guy who did the right thing, a guy who tried to be honorable and worthy.  This was his chance.  

For the first time in years, he wanted to live.  He knew that starting fresh would mean giving up old patterns and tendencies - and most painfully, it would mean giving up Carrie.  Maybe it would be easier to love her from afar than to live with her up close.

After feeling like an invalid for most of the last year, he was no longer interested in relying on other people to take care of him.  Quinn tipped his head back and looked up at the gray and cracking ceiling.  No one was looking for him, no one knew he was alive.  The freedom in that was both liberating and terrifying.  He was used to the confines of a mission.  He craved it.  He was assigned a task, he completed the task.  Simple.  He had tried to leave the agency before and it never worked out.   _ Could this time be different? _  His jaw tensed as he was steeling himself to his current reality.  It would have to be.  He was a different person. 

Mr. P was still standing next to Quinn’s bed, a somber look on his face.  “Well, what’s the plan son?”

Quinn’s eyes stayed on Mr. P for a few seconds before responding.  He knew what he was really asking, but the pain shooting through his arms was getting to be unbearable again and giving an earnest answer really wasn’t his style.  “First, pain pills,” he said with a grimace, as he slunk down in his bed.

“I think we can manage that.”  Mr. P said with a nod of his head.

“T-t-t-tomorrow, physical therapy.”  Quinn added as he pressed his head back into his pillow, watching Mr. P turn to walk out of the room.  

Clearly surprised by Quinn’s desire to get better, Mr. P looked over his shoulder and smirked at Quinn.  “Boot camp starts tomorrow at 0700 sharp, soldier.” 

 

***********************************************************************************

Three weeks later, the details for Quinn’s exfiltration out of the country were set.  He was going to begin making his way north to Canada, where he would cross the border on foot.  He had purposely built in extra time for getting there, knowing he had a few loose ends to tie up before leaving.  After having breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. P, Quinn slipped on a black winter coat and dark baseball cap, grabbed his black duffel bag with his good arm and walked out of the warehouse.  Two blocks away, Quinn opened the driver’s side door of the old beige sedan with New York license plates that had been arranged for him, tossing his bag inside.  Turning on the car, Quinn typed an address into the GPS that was mounted to the dash.  He wasn’t going anywhere without making sure Franny was safe first.

************************************************************************************

Quinn had followed the foster mom and the kids to the park, watching Franny play from a safe distance.  When she came near him, he knew he shouldn’t talk to her, but he couldn’t help himself.  Now, walking back to his car from the park, Hop in his hand, Quinn bit back tears.  Talking to Franny had thrown him for a loop.

Getting into the sedan, Quinn looked at Hop and thought about his son.  He had really fucked that up, thinking he had no choice at the time but to disappear for his John Jr.’s safety.  Living with the guilt was easier when Quinn believed that.   _ Could I leave Franny too? _  He swore to Carrie that he would keep Franny safe.  How could he do that when he was severing all ties?  In that moment he made a decision, one he was hoping he wouldn’t regret.  Quinn turned on the car and began driving towards Carrie’s brownstone.

****************************************************************************************

Quinn had taken his time, surveilling Carrie’s house, making sure it wasn’t being watched.  He hadn’t seen any movement in or around the house in hours.  Walking slowly and trying not to limp, he walked towards the brownstone, cutting in between houses, arriving at the back entrance to what was once his apartment.  A rectangular piece of brown cardboard was still taped where he had thrown a coffee mug through the window months before.

Sliding his hand around the tape, he reached inside and unlocked the door, easily gaining entry.  He shook his head in disgust.   _ Carrie was an intelligence officer for fuck’s sake.  This should’ve been fixed immediately.   _ Closing the door quietly behind him, Quinn looked around, his breath catching in his throat.   _ Nothing had been touched.  It looks just like I left it. _

His adrenaline was pumping with anticipation as he made his way through the house.  Carrie wasn’t home and there was no sign that she had been there recently.  A calendar in the kitchen had an appointment listed with Christine Lonas, Franny’s caseworker, this afternoon. He would lay low and out of sight in the basement while waiting for Carrie to come home so they could talk.

He was asleep on the basement couch when he heard the floorboards creaking above him.  Carrie was home.  His stomach did a flip as his sat up, running his hand through his hair.  He stood up and straightened the basement living room.  He had been careful not to disturb the bedroom area.  Quinn wanted to make sure he could leave at a moment’s notice and without a trace in case someone found him.

He stood listening at the bottom of the stairs.  Since Carrie had come home right before her appointment, he wasn’t going to have the opportunity to talk to her beforehand.  He heard a knock at Carrie’s door.  When he heard a male voice, Quinn’s instincts told him to grab his bag and hide behind the water heater.  He was sure the caseworker was a woman.   _ Who could this be? _

A few seconds later, a door swung open to the basement and the man came stumbling down the steps.  Hiding in the shadows, Quinn’s body tensed as the man stood dazed at the bottom of the stairs.  As he twisted towards the bedroom, Quinn could see his face.   _ Fucking Max!  What is he doing here? _  Silently watching as Max collapsed face first on the bed, Quinn realized he was trapped.  To get out the back door, he’d have to walk by Max and he needed to talk to Carrie before he spoke to anyone else.  Less than a minute later, he could hear Carrie and a woman’s voice, and then the creaking of the floorboards as they moved throughout the house.  Carrie must have been giving the caseworker a tour.  A short time later, Quinn could hear Carrie ask the woman if it would be a problem for her to move to Washington.   _ Washington.  Carrie was already back in the spy game, huh?  Another fucking mission. _  Standing in the dark basement, hiding like a criminal, Quinn realized he couldn’t do this anymore.  There was no going back to Washington for him.

He heard the basement door open and held his breath as he watched Carrie walk slowly down the stairs.  Quinn began moving slowly against the wall, knowing he had to time his exit up the stairs with her entry to the bedroom where she was surely going to check on Max.  That’s when it hit him, she had never been back down here.  He let himself take one last look at her.  God, she was beautiful.  Even with all of the makeup she was wearing, he could see the strain on her face and the dark circles under her eyes.  He felt his chest tighten at the thought of what the impact of his death was having on her.  His instinct was to put her first, protect her at all costs.  This time, he couldn’t do it.  

As she made her way past the dark basement kitchen, Quinn moved silently up the stairs.  When he got to the top, he hesitated, a split second later he was making his way through to her front door, mistakenly stepping on a creaky floor board.  He froze in place, panic rising in his throat.  He waited a couple of seconds and made his way outside.  He was a block away from the brownstone when he realized he hadn’t grabbed his book,  _ Great Expectations _ .  It was the only thing he owned, his prized possession, he only possession for that matter.   _ No, it was Peter Quinn’s book, not David Exely’s. _  He told himself.  His new life had already started.  He got into the car, turned it on and plugged the coordinates into the GPS for his first stop on his way to Canada. 


End file.
